Shadow of the Steward
by Peppery Mints
Summary: A village has been destroyed near Minas Tirith, and Faramir finds a strange child among the wreckage. As the War of the Ring draws ever nearer, Faramir must discover the meaning behind this massacre, and fight to protect his people despite the increasing madness of his father.
1. Chapter 1: Pictures

**:::Shadow of the Steward:::**

**Chapter One: Pictures**

* * *

Two men lounged on the parapets, one of them leaning against the wall with his hood drawn over his eyes, the other carefully repairing his arrows. Between them sat a loaf of bread, which was hard as tack and had been untouched by either of them. The sun was just beginning to rise over Minas Tirith, and the chilly predawn hours just starting to evaporate; for the first time in many weeks, the oppressive gray rainclouds which had circled the White City had cleared. A feeble yellow sun peered groggily over the horizon, warming the city with a pale winter light.

Kálfr looked up from his arrows and nudged his companion. "Look, there goes the Steward's son and his shadow."

Bain didn't move. "That's the _Captain_ and his shadow, Kálfr. Show some respect."

The younger ranger grinned at his surly companion, and slid his arrow back into his quiver. Kálfr was a young, blonde man with devilish good looks while Bain was older, his dark hair beginning to be flecked with gray. The two of them made an unlikely duo, and yet remained inseparable through the darkest times.

"You must admit it's a funny sight," Kálfr smiled, peering over the wall.

Beneath them, striding towards the stables with his boots clicking on the cobblestones, was Faramir, the youngest son of Denethor. His fair hair was tousled and he seemed bothered by something as he hurried along; however, as he turned a corner he paused and waited for his little friend to catch up.

The men had taken to calling her _dúath_, or 'shadow', as she always seemed to be near Faramir but was especially noticeable in the afternoon. Two weeks ago, Faramir and his rangers had discovered a destroyed village while on patrol, and the only survivor of the wreckage had been a tiny, crippled little girl named Firiel. Faramir had taken her to Minas Tirith and found a home for her there, tending to her wounds and keeping her nearby; the little girl was wary of strangers but had taken strongly to the young son of Denethor, following him every chance she had.

Firiel was a strange little child—naturally untrusting and suspicious of anyone who was not her rescuer, and seemed particularly frightened of women. The spinster healer who had taken the child in complained that at every chance she had, the girl ran away to the stables and buried herself in the hay, waiting for Faramir to return.

"Adoration is a funny sight to you?" Bain asked tiredly. "That explains a good deal."

"I know quite a bit about adoration, old man," Kálfr said teasingly, "just ask for me down at the tavern—the girls there seem to keep track of my whereabouts quite well."

"Considering you never seem to _leave_ the tavern, I'd say you're rather easy to keep track of," Bain retorted. He stood and stretched, yawning ferociously and scraping a hand through his beard. "We should go bid him farewell, and ask if he needs any help on his journey."

Kálfr groaned. "You're like an old nursemaid," he said, but picked up his bow anyway. "The Captain can survive without your making sure he won't trip over his bootlaces. You and Beregond are like a pair of clucking mother hens, making sure their chick is safe in the nest."

_A job which should be done by his father_, Bain thought in his heart, but said nothing of it. The Steward's obvious favoritism was none of his business—as a soldier of Gondor and a Ranger under Faramir's command, he had no right to be forming opinions on his superiors.

The two Rangers made their way down the wall and towards the stables, drifting into a familiar, comfortable silence; the two of them, despite their differences, enjoyed the warm, pale rays of the sun overhead, listening to the city of Minas Tirith slowly coming to life around them.

* * *

Firiel sat on a bale of hay, her good leg tucked against her chest. Faramir busied himself preparing his horse, ensuring the saddle was cinched securely around its dappled gray sides. As he worked, he chatted carefully with Firiel, taking care not to mention her village or her fallen people. When he had first brought Firiel to Minas Tirith, he had tried to discuss what had happened there; the child had flown into a frustrated, tearful rage and then withdrew strangely, becoming silent and inwards. He had entrusted her to the care of a healer named Dera, and the kind woman had reported that Firiel had remained in such a state for two days. She was still in mourning, Dera said firmly. It was very important not to mention it again.

"Well now, my brave little soldier, could you assist me with brushing down Mírdan?" he asked, knowing that Firiel both loved and feared the large horse. She seemed happiest around animals, especially large ones, although she was painfully shy around other people.

She began brushing down the horse with a large, stiff brush, her tiny hand nearly lost in the leather strap. At first, Faramir had worried that causing the child to move more than necessary would put undue pain upon her twisted leg; however, the medic he had taken her to insisted that Firiel had most likely been born that way, and would never regain use of her left leg. Still, he worried.

"Where are you going, Faramir?" she asked, petting Mírdan's velvety nose uncertainly.

He hesitated. In truth, he was going back to her village and meeting with another company of Rangers who claimed to have discovered tracks. There was no doubt that the deaths there were deliberate, and it was a horrific massacre that needed to be solved.

"I am going on a short journey," he answered finally. "but I will return, and if you stay with Dera, I shall bring you back a present." He looked at Firiel to impress how important it was. "That means no coming down to the stables, little one—I fear you may be kicked by a horse with a shorter temper than Mírdan's."

"_Horses_ won't hurt me," Firiel said quietly. It was almost under her breath, but that was how she usually spoke. Something about the way she stressed _horses_ unsettled him.

Faramir paused, and then his mouth tightened. "That may be so, but Dera worries that you may get lost in this vast city. Please stay nearby, little warrior, for both our sakes."

She nodded, ducking her head and scuffling away from Mírdan. Faramir led his gray horse out of the stables with Firiel dragging herself behind, and squinted into the new sunlight. For days, rain had plagued them and given an overall sense of gloomy tidings; now, the weather finally broken, brighter spirits seemed to prevail. Standing outside was Bain, who Firiel had taken to, and Kálfr, whom she had _not_.

"Captain," Bain said, saluting. "And his Lady," he added with a bow. Firiel hid behind Mírdan and peeked out from behind the strong haunches. "We came to see if you needed any company with you on your journey."

"Nay, I shall unite with the Northern patrol and we shall carry on from there," Faramir answered. He mounted his gelding swiftly and sighed. "I hope to bring back fair tidings and more news. Firiel, stay here, my child."

The small crippled girl backed away from the horse, and Faramir urged Mírdan to speed, the two of them taking off with a clatter. Once exposed, Firiel hobbled back into the darkness and safety of the barn, hoping the other two men would take no notice of her. She had promised Faramir that she would stay with Dera, but her caretaker would be working at this time of the morning; there was no point in going back _now_.

She waited, listening hard for the sounds of Bain and the other man to move away. She didn't like the small, pale one and stayed away from his bright eyes and quick hands. Men didn't bother her—they tended to ignore her, which suited her fine. It was when they smiled and tried to talk that she became nervous.

Once she was confident they had left, she left the stables and followed the cobblestone street, her twisted leg scraping behind her. She had a bad feeling, a kind of queasy, stomach-fluttering feeling that was making her head hurt. This had happened once or twice before, and what followed was never good. The little girl followed the streets she had memorized until she reached a small, high, green courtyard that people were not allowed in. However, she wasn't just people—Firiel knew how to be small and quiet, and once the guard's eyes had glazed over, and she just became another part of the background, she shuffled forward into the courtyard. There was a small corner on one side, where a thick potted fern nearly touched the ground. Beneath it was a small mossy place where she could sit and listen.

The courtyard was empty now, which was nice; Firiel curled up as best she could and tried to calm her nerves. Maybe it would happen this time—there had been _lots_ of times where she felt nauseous and the pictures hadn't come. Only once in a while had she seen the pictures, and none of them ever had Faramir in them. She took deep breaths and pulled her new dress over her knees. The dress was brown, but too stiff and too clean. The dresses she used to wear were ripped and dirty, but they felt comfortable and not itchy.

As she scratched her neck, she heard boot steps clunking on the flagstones. She drew in a breath and stayed perfectly still.

"Father," she heard a deep voice say, and she identified it as Faramir's brother, Boromir. He was all right—she liked him best when he reminded her of Faramir. Which wasn't very often. He was bigger and older and much louder, but when he was quiet she liked to watch him and see all the similarities between the brothers.

"Boromir, best of sons," Denethor said, sounding pleased. Firiel hoped they wouldn't notice her foot poking out from beneath the ferns. She couldn't twist her leg in far enough; hopefully Denethor wouldn't notice. He had dark, witchy little eyes which noticed plenty of things.

Boromir sat down on a stone bench and rubbed his eyes. "My father, there is much to discuss," he said tiredly. Denethor sat beside him with a swirl of furs. "Again, I am concerned for the welfare of the outer villages. If Faramir is correct, this may not be an isolated incident; we should double the patrols surrounding the borders, and increase troops in Osgiliath. If an attack were to come, it would land there."

"These small villages have many squabbles amongst themselves," Denethor argued. "Increasing patrols would do nothing save foster mistrust and fear that something is amiss. As for Osgiliath, you may be correct on that front—but the change must happen slowly. You would lead the men there, I trust?"

"Of course," Boromir answered. "Father, Faramir is concerned that this may be the work of Orcs. I do think it wise to perhaps send a party into the mountains to roust them out; if they are gathering in numbers, it may serve beneficial to nip them in the bud. Faramir could lead a few of his Rangers—"

Denethor snorted. "Your brother lacks the nerve to lead a charge into battle. He lacks a warrior's instinct, my dear boy, which is no slight upon him, but it is a skill greatly needed among his men. Morale will quaver if their leader lacks confidence. No, Boromir, there is naught to be done. Burning down a small village and leaving no trace behind is not the work of Orcs."

Crouched behind the ferns, Firiel felt her stomach lurch unpleasantly. They were talking about her home. Faramir had tried to talk to her about it once, but she had seen everything again—the burning and suffering and hearing her mother scream, pleading, banging against the door. She saw the flames, rising higher towards the big moon, how she had turned and fled back to the river, sliding in the icy mud; then, back in the ruins of the village, burying herself in hot ash to keep warm next to the smoldering house she used to live in.

Firiel twitched and her gorge rose; her small head fell backwards and a thick moan rose from her throat. Denethor paused and looked around for the noise, but she didn't notice; in lieu of the memories, the pictures began to flash in her mind. She gripped her head tightly and hoped it would be short.

_A huge beast, almost a dragon, with black scales and teeth large and sharp as daggers, reared towards the sky. Huge leather wings unfurled and _He_ was on its back, the one who haunted her nightmares. Fluttering robes, more smoke and mist than solid garment, swirled around him as green lightning raged across the skies. A bony hand, fleshless beneath the spiked black gloves, reached for her…_

_And there was Faramir, falling back, a small black arrow striking him in the heart. His face, a twisted mask of pain, and she heard his pained roar as he fell in battle, the men around him retreating in fear; the river at his feet roared and rushed as the green light around him burned ever brighter. Monsters, monsters everywhere, creeping in on the fabric of dreams and reaching out skeletal hands to drag Faramir down, down into the deep darkness, their claws tearing at his skin…_

_The green lightning erupted into flames, flames which consumed her village and spread to Minas Tirith, the White City crumbling to ruins. Denethor, his eyes closed, lay next to his youngest son in the midst of flames, a hard glass globe clutched in his hands; the green fire was split by black smoke which erupted from the object and poured around the flames, not extinguishing them but merely blinding her; now the flames were secret, silent, waiting…_

She smacked her head against the stone wall and groaned again. Birdsong poured into her ear and she concentrated on breathing. Already the images were fading; all she remembered was green fire and blood. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to recall the visions—frustration bit at her when she couldn't. Someone was carrying her, carefully keeping her still; the warm sun kissed her face and Firiel let her head fall back.

It was Dera, the woman who cared for her; the healer stripped the little girl of the sweat-soaked dress and hauled water from the well for a bath. The little child had withdrawn into herself again, wide-eyed and deathly pale, her breathing shallow and slow. As the warm water turned her skin pink, Firiel seemed to come alive again, and Dera combed the thin hair away from her face.

"Firiel," Dera said soothingly, "Firiel, can you hear me?"

She turned her face towards the healer and nodded.

"A servant of the Steward's found you eavesdropping in the courtyard—my little one, you _must_ not go to the upper levels, do you understand me?" Dera said, handing the child a cloth to dry herself with. Firiel immediately wrapped the towel around her head as if to block out her hearing, but Dera firmly removed it and set it around her shoulders.

"I like the courtyard," Firiel whispered. "It's green and quiet."

"There are green and quiet places near the House of Healing," Dera reminded her. "Tomorrow you will come with me there, and you can play with the other little children."

Firiel slowly pulled on the dress, fitting her arms through the sleeves. She didn't want to tell Dera what other children always did; back at her village she had been kept away from them, because she was strange and different and couldn't keep up. They didn't like her pictures—she didn't like them either, but there wasn't any choice. But Dera looked worried, and when grown people worried they made you stay inside. Firiel couldn't bear to stay inside the house, it was too large and too bright; with the windows open it was flooded with sunlight and she had to hide beneath the bed.

But she nodded, because she could stay away from children.

"Firiel," Dera said slowly, drawing the child onto her knee, "did something happen in the courtyard? Did someone…hurt you? You seemed so strange…"

"Pictures," Firiel said hoarsely. "That's all. Just pictures."

Dera looked at her, worried creases in her brow, her pale blonde hair spilling free of the braid; then she pressed a kiss to Firiel's hair.

_Just pictures_, Firiel told herself. _They can't hurt anyone_.

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**This story is a continuation of the one-shot I wrote, _Bury Them With Honor_. I've received a good bit of attention and even a request to continue the story—for that reason, I've decided to attempt just that****. Reading _With Honor_ isn't required for this story, but it may help for background.****  
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**I'm worried about this story for several reasons. One, I've never written a "gifted" character before, and I hope I'm dealing with it correctly. (Meaning, I hope she's not a Mary Tot.) Two, this is the first story I've written that isn't a one-shot and deals with people entirely from Middle Earth. That means I have to characterize people correctly and do oodles of research about Minas Tirith and whatnot. So please, take all this with a grain of salt, as it's my first attempt. **

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	2. Chapter 2: Rumors

**Chapter Two: Rumors**

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Winter truly was the most unforgiving season, Faramir mused. Mírdan's iron-shod hooves rang dully against the half-frozen ground, the dry brown grass rustling beneath her stride. The Steward's son drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, staving off the brisk chill which carried a hint of damp springtime in it. A change of seasons could not come quickly enough, and even though Gondorian springs were wet and full of mud, he ached for green things beginning to sprout; a break from the cursed grays and tans of winter would be a welcome change.

Despite the chill in the air it was a comfortable ride, and Faramir wished he could be making it under better circumstances. His Rangers had been prowling among the area, scouting for clues and ferreting out rumors through their extensive network of contacts. Gathering scraps of information was difficult, as the small villages scattered among Gondor counted secrets the way a miser stacks gold—and while rumors were thick and flew fast, there was often little truth among them.

Mírdan twitched her tail and he patted her neck. Destroy a whole village—and for what purpose? What could prompt a man to do such a monstrous thing? Orcs was a distinct possibility, although he knew his father thought differently.

Faramir sighed. His father had been unsettling as of late, spending long days in the uppermost towers, barring the doors and denying entrance to servants and kin. Only Boromir could approach him and coax him out of those strange moods, which varied from vicious anger to cold distance. If being honest with himself, Faramir preferred his father in his wild rages—the grief which had stricken them all upon the death of Denethor's wife was most evident during his anger. It served as a reminder to the young Ranger that his father, by choosing to continue carrying the heavy mantle of the Stewardship instead of passing it to Boromir, was still dealing with his grief.

Alone. Twisting through the darkness in his father's eyes, there was deep loneliness. The world without Finduilas was a quiet and cold place indeed.

"My lord!" a voice called, and Faramir was jerked from his musings to realize he had come across one his Ranger scouts. Ceadda, a wiry youth who hadn't yet begun a beard, was riding upon a small bay horse. The young boy pulled up short next to his lord. "There is much to discuss, we have been expecting you," he explained.

"Then lead the way," Faramir gestured, and Ceadda grinned. The quick-footed bay pony shot off through the fields, and with gentle coaxing Mírdan followed. It was not far to camp, but Ceadda seemed determined to bridge the distance as quickly as possible, and Faramir wasn't averse to a hard gallop.

Hooves stomping, horses snorting, the two drew into the makeshift camp which was hidden among rocky clefts. A small fire smoldered between two rocks, and frosty whorls of snow clumped around the rubble. Three men were sharpening and tending to weapons next to the fire, their fingers red and chapped from the cold, and Faramir dismounted. The men looked up and gave alert to the rest of the company, sheathing their weapons and going over to greet their Captain.

Mírdan was handed to Ceadda, who tended to the horses, and Faramir pulled off his helmet. "Jörmanil, my friend, what news?" he asked, addressing a gray-haired man with a neat beard and very dark eyes.

"We have traveled far across Gondor, my lord, searching for news about the destroyed village," Jörmanil replied evenly, "and although there is large speculation, very few stories have been heard twice."

Faramir's mouth tightened. He had been afraid of that. Once one story got started, the men of the town all invented different versions, downplaying or emphasizing other aspects to suit their storytelling methods. "What was the most common rumor?" Faramir sat down next to the small fire, warming his hands.

"There have been tales of curses, my lord," Jörmanil said dryly, "to which I paid little mind. However, while in a tavern at Ethring, I heard a fisherman saying that spies inhabited the village. He seemed quite agitated, sir, and upon questioning him he became surly and uncooperative."

The young Gondorian raised an eyebrow. "And did you convince him to continue talking?"

Jörmanil teeth showed in some tight semblance of a smile. "That I did, sir. Upon _convincing_ this fisherman that he should continue, he went on to say that there were dark stirrings in that village, and that some person wielding great magic destroyed it. He Who Walks In Shadow, he titled the phantom, although I am certain he invented the name in that moment."

"He Who Walks In Shadow?" Faramir said, shaking his head. "Not as creative as I would have guessed. I saw no signs of a magical attack at the village. And all Wizards are our allies—if one wielded destructive magic he would not simply settle for a small village."

"I think the same," the older man agreed, "and I would believe this fantastical story to be pure lies, save that I heard the same story a week later in Edhellond. Rumors travel swiftly but there is still some limit to their speed, my lord."

Faramir studied the older man's careworn face. "Do you believe this story to be true? Are we under threat from a magical attack?"

There was only the briefest hesitation before he replied. "No, my lord, I do not think so. A much more likely tale would be that a squabble between villages grew in scale. We investigated several outlying villages and discovered that the one that had been destroyed was difficult to trade with, and the people who lived there were an unforgiving group. We could not have been more discreet, but even so, those we questioned were suspicious."

"My mind would rest easier if it was an inward attack," Faramir admitted, "but I cannot stomach the thought of another village turning on one another. Our land is peaceful and this is an act of extreme cruelty, along with outward defiance to the Steward's rule, especially if you consider it simply a fight between neighbors. Someone _must_ be held responsible for the deaths of those people, Jörmanil, and whether it is a village or a phantom, we _will_ find out the truth."

"Aye," Jörmanil agreed, but his tone was much harsher than his Captain's had been, "and I will not rest until those responsible have met with justice. Many of your men, myself included, have come from small villages such as these, and if there is a war brewing among the townships, then it is our responsibility to squash it out."

Faramir paused. "…Perhaps we should explore counseling the townships before we take such action. I do not wish to alarm the greater cities unduly. Did the other villages seem frightened of what happened?"

"More defensive and wary, my lord, than actual fear," Jörmanil replied flatly, "which fosters my theory of war within our borders. Would you like to travel with me to the villages in question? Perhaps pressure from the Steward's son will loosen their tongues."

Pressure or reassurance, Faramir told himself, for the villages could not be totally without fear. For an instant he wished Boromir was by his side, for his elder brother would prove a valuable confidante; but Boromir shared Jörmanil's propensity for action and the desire to seek justice instead of answers. Faramir was left alone in this situation, with Boromir's gaze turned towards the Orcs in the mountains, and his father's moods becoming increasingly strange.

Was there a war brewing within Gondor itself? With dark clouds settling across Middle Earth, Gondor needed to be ready for action. Faramir dearly hoped the country he loved had not become blistered and infected by the poison seeping from Mordor.

* * *

"Firiel? Firiel, where are you?"

The small child pressed herself closer against the cold stone of the House of Healing. Stout ivy grew over the walls, and tucked in this corner behind a large bush she was virtually unseen by the rest of the world. Unfortunately, she couldn't see the rest of the world either, and this troubled her; being hidden was one thing, but behind hidden with a vantage point was another thing entirely. See but not be seen, that was what she liked.

Dera had scrubbed her clean and braided her hair tightly, then given her a new dress with the instruction to wear it tomorrow. The dress was gray and itched hideously; Firiel had unbraided her hair and nearly shucked the dress off, but it was simply too cold and the gray shift remained. She pressed her cheek against the icy stones and closed her eyes, ignoring Dera's concerned calls.

Eventually, the healer moved away to a different spot, and Firiel relaxed. Having someone tend to her was tiring, and at times even frightening. Dera always wanted to talk to her, or read her stories, or brush her hair—it was terrifying, having that much attention lavished on her. Back in her village (_no no no, don't think about that)_ people had ignored her. That was safe.

"Oh!"

Firiel looked up and pressed herself back against the wall, instantly afraid.

There was a young boy, not much older than her, with a wide grin. He had a mop of untidy black curls and looked harmless enough, but Firiel knew better. Children her age weren't kind. Neither were women.

"I'm Bergil," the boy continued. "Are you Firiel? Dera's been shouting all over for you."

She said nothing, but ducked her head.

"Are you crying?" he asked, sounding sympathetic. "It's all right if you are. I cry sometimes. Do you want to come have something to eat? That always makes me feel better."

Firiel shook her head. "'M not crying," she mumbled.

"Oh, that's good," Bergil said, relieved. "I don't know why girls cry all the time. Let me run and get Dera, she's worried about you."

"No!" Firiel cried, and the boy cocked his head to one side.

"It'll only be a second," he said, not quite understanding, "I'm very fast."

"She'll want to braid my hair," she finally replied, feeling very small. "It pulls and hurts. Don't get her, please."

Bergil bit his upper lip. "Um. Well…do you want any lunch? I've got bread and cheese we can both share. Let me run and get it."

Before Firiel could protest, the boy was off like a rocket. He _was_ quick, and back at the village _(bad, stay away, don't think)_ he would have been one of the boys who tended to the sheep. Those boys were mean, calling her a mutt and laughing at her because of the tether. It wasn't her fault that she had to stay inside or on the lead—they said she was one of their sheepdogs. Firiel was glad they were gone. Couldn't the fire have been more selective? Not killed Mother and instead just taken all of the sheep boys and the women who called her cursed?

The boy was back, flushed and carrying bread and cheese. "I told Dera I found you," he said, plopping down next to her, "but I didn't tell her where you were. Here, do you want some cheese?"

Firiel accepted the cheese and nibbled on it while the boy chewed on his bread. He wasn't _quite_ like the sheep boys; none of them had dark hair or nice smiles. They jeered instead of smiling.

"My father's a soldier," Bergil said around a mouthful of food, "and he goes to the Upper Levels all the time. Have you ever been? I have. It's beautiful up there, but I like the House of Healing, there are so many stories. And I like getting things for the healers. That's my job, you know, I get supplies and help if something happens. Without me, the healers would spend all their time running back and forth and getting herbs."

Did he ever stop talking?"

"I know a bunch of different kinds of herbs, like what's good for toothaches and what's good for stomachaches and what cures infections. My father thinks I could become a healer once I'm grown, which would be nice, but I really want to be a soldier like him. Maybe a healer soldier, that would be fun. Do you want some bread? There you go. My little brother wants to be a blacksmith, he spends all his time down there. He's too small though, I don't think he could lift the hammer."

Firiel let the boy chatter on, choosing instead to focus on the bread and cheese. However, when he mentioned Faramir she perked up.

"My father spends a lot of time with Lord Faramir," Bergil boasted.

"So do I," Firiel said, finally speaking up. The boy looked impressed.

"Really?"

She nodded. "And with his horse. When is he coming back?"

"Lord Faramir? Not for days, I don't think. He's off with his Rangers, they leave for weeks sometimes." Bergil said offhandedly. Her eyes grew large.

"Weeks?" Faramir had said he would only be gone a short while. How could he leave her for weeks? What if he never came back? What if he met _Him_ while he was gone? What if the black figure from her dreams attacked him before she could warn him?

"Are you all right?" Bergil asked, his brow furrowing. "It may not be weeks, it could be shorter. Maybe he's just checking in to see how they're doing."

What would she do without Lord Faramir? He was the first person to be kind to her, but not the smothering sort of kindness—he let her alone and spoke kindly to her without asking more. She needed to warn him. But where was he? She couldn't just get a horse and go off alone. Was he close to the city?

She shuffled to her feet and the boy appeared to notice her twisted leg for the first time. Wordlessly, he followed her, eyeing the crippled limb with something akin to fascination; Firiel turned a corner and hurried towards the road. If she could just find Bain, perhaps she could ask him to warn Faramir for her. But Kálfr might be with him—that was just a risk she would have to take.

"Firiel!" a familiar voice called, and the little girl flinched upon seeing Dera. The blonde healer scooped her up and kissed her hair. "Where were you? I've been worried nearly ill! Bergil, you ran off without telling me where she was, you naughty boy."

The curly-haired lad seemed shamed. "She didn't want me to tell," he muttered.

"Your hair came undone," Dera remarked, ignoring Bergil. Firiel wriggled helplessly in Dera's grasp, already feeling the strong healer's fingers combing through her thin hair.

"I need to see Faramir!" Firiel cried.

"Firiel, he won't be back for a few days, at least," Dera said, trying to soothe. "Be still while I bind your hair."

"_No!_" Firiel screamed, and Dera released her as though she were on fire. "_No,_ don't touch my hair!"

The crippled girl dragged her leg behind her as she limped off as fast as she could, her eyes blurring with tears. She wanted Faramir. She needed to warn him before it was too late.

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**Relatively short this time, just a bit of dialog and some introductions being made. Sorry for such a long wait!**

**Also, locations. I have stated before that I am _anything_ but a LotR buff, and all of my knowledge comes from friends or the research I do on the internet. From my calculations, the distance between Ethring and Edhellond is about 150 miles or so, which would take roughly a week to reach. I think. I really have no idea. **

**If you see any mistakes, either canonical, geographical, or grammatical, please feel free to point them out. If it's canonical, it may be deliberate, but assume I'm an idiot either way.**

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_[Six reviews received]_

_Special thanks to: _**frodo16424, fantasychica37, tommyginger, FebruarySong, Silvia Diveky, **_and_ **ladymoonscar.**

_Thank you guys for being interested in my story! As I said before, please feel free to point out any errors on my part. When it comes to the magnificent sandbox Tolkien created, I'm more than a little out of my league._


	3. Chapter 3: The Sight

**Chapter Three: The Sight**

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The air in the tavern was thick and muggy, damp with ale and full of good humor. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth to stave off the fierce winter chill, and laughter boomed through the room; a barmaid with russet curls flashed a dimpled smile as she walked by with jugs of mead in her hands. Faramir drew his hood further down and lowered his gaze. The atmosphere of taverns had never appealed to him, too bawdy and loud and full of ill tempers, and even though there seemed to be merriment all around, the Steward's son knew how easily tempers could change when ale was involved.

"Keep a close eye on your purse strings, my lord," Jörmanil warned in a low voice. The two men swept inside, the older man taking care to keep Faramir behind him. Jörmanil was a seasoned Ranger but not well known in these parts, and there would be few men who could identify one of the Steward's sons, especially in a little backwater village this far away from Minas Tirith.

The barmaid with the dark red curls beamed at Jörmanil. "Oy there, you sly old wolf, you owe me a Castar for last week's tab. Who's your friend there, another mysterious Ranger with little to say?" She bit her lip and tried to peek beneath Faramir's hood; Faramir smiled in spite of himself.

Jörmanil slipped the plump barmaid a beaten silver coin. "Here you are, love, and don't spend it all in one place."

She tucked it into the small pocket in her apron and headed back to the kitchens, while Faramir and Jörmanil took a seat at the bar. Behind them, there was another roar of laughter, and Jörmanil's scarred upper lip curled into a sneer.

"That skinny one in the middle, that's the man we're after," the lieutenant muttered. "I spoke with him the last time I was here—he goes by the name of Belegil, and he's a weasel, make no mistake about it."

Belegil was a slender man with a wide forehead and narrow black eyes that reminded Faramir unpleasantly of a rodent. His beard was thin and his cheeks sallow, but he dressed cleanly and didn't appear ill-tempered. At the moment he was quite enthusiastic, and was sloshing his ale around as he gestured animatedly. Apparently their weasel was in the middle of quite the tale, and Faramir strained his ears to listen over the noise of the crowd.

"…and my wife told me there were strange dealings in that town. We're better off without it, I tell you, there was _nothing good_ about that place!"

"Your wife's got mutton for brains," a fisherman said, somewhat angrily, but the place exploded in laughter anyway, "She's been spendin' too much time w' those toys of 'ers. I don't think it's the work of Wizards, an' I don't think it's the work of Orcs, I think it was the Steward himself."

The tavern went quiet, and Faramir's brow knitted.

"Think about it," the fisherman continued, "nuthin's been 'eard from Minas Tirith, even though those Rangers are 'ere every other day! An' that _Captain_ _Faramir_, he was the first one there! Y'don't think that's suspicious? Nah, I reckon the Steward gave an order. That's what I'd put my money on."

A long silence reigned, and the crowd took nervous sips of their beer. Belegil was shaking his head. "Nonsense! Absolute nonsense! Why on earth would the Steward destroy one of his own villages? You're talking about a tyranny here, Dírfred. He would never do such a thing! I tell you, I've heard from several sources that a _single man _slaughtered that village. It had to be! There were no reports of a band of men, nothing! What kind of person has that power to take out a village? A _Wizard_, that's what!"

"A Wizard, settlin' for a single village?" Dírfred snorted. "Iffin' I could burn down houses, I wouldn't go after a spooky old village, I'd go for Osgiliath itself! A Wizard's got more brains then _that_. I'm tellin' yah, it's a cover up."

"You're all delusional," another voice spoke up, "this is obviously the work of Orcs! They've been thick as fleas on the mountains these past few months, my son nearly died trying to get a trade caravan through the Gap. And they _won't_ just settle for a village, they're coming after more. If the Steward doesn't send out his Rangers to flush them out, we'll all be overrun. And anyway, how could a _single man_ bar all the doors and windows? That much is _fact_, Belegil! It was a group, a _large_ group, it had to be!"

"And as for _you_, saying we're better off without them, you ought to be ashamed!" the reedy voice of an old man piped in. "They were unhelpful, yes, but—"

The tavern explosively disagreed with the old man.

"_Unhelpful_?" Belegil roared, "that place was full of bad eggs, and you know it! Crops failing, barns burning, clouds swirling in the sky and storms that don't seem to leave—that's the work of magic! And not to mention those _children_—all of them! Who treats their children like that?"

"Not t' mention they don't _trade_," someone else groused, "takin' more than their share of fish outta th' river."

"Superstitious old women, the lot of ya," Dírfred rumbled, "there was nuthin' mystical about that village. And as fer those children, did anyone see 'em wit' their own eyes?"

No one spoke up, although there was noisy grumbling. The fisherman nodded. "Exactly. Just rumors and wishful thinkin'. Predictin' the future, pah! I'm tellin' yah, the Steward is behind all of this!"

Jörmanil stood up and kicked his stool back. "I've heard enough!"

The tavern collectively jumped as the wiry older Ranger strode forward and seized Dírfred by the scruff of his neck. With a speed and strength belying his size, Jörmanil heaved the fisherman out of his chair and threw him bodily against the wall. His sword flashed in the firelight as he unsheathed it, and before either Dírfred or anyone else could move, the blade was beneath Dirfred's chin.

"I have heard enough blasphemy against the Steward," Jörmanil hissed, "and I have heard enough gossip and _lies_ about the town that was destroyed. I come here and ask questions and I am met with silence, but I return to find your tongues wagging? Do you truly believe the Steward could destroy one of his own villages? _Do_ you?"

"Jörmanil!" Faramir called, standing up. "Enough!"

The lieutenant reluctantly tore his gaze away from the fisherman, sparing him only a glare, and then reluctantly sheathed his weapon. Faramir swept over to him, throwing back his hood.

"Enough, my friend," Faramir said quietly. "Let them gossip. We will find the truth." He turned to the crowd, who was all staring at the two men with shocked, terrified faces. Dírfred got to his feet gingerly, scurrying out the door and leaving his cloak behind.

"Please, be at peace," Faramir said, spreading his hands. "We seek only the truth—I am Captain Faramir, son of Denethor. I assure you, my father is not to blame for the destruction of your neighbors, and he has sent me personally to discover what needs to be done. Rest assured that I will not rest until whoever is responsible is found.

"Is there anyone here who can tell me more about the village in question?" he continued. "You say it was unhelpful in trade, could you elaborate?"

There were shifted seats and uncertain glances, as the previously rowdy crowd subdued. Finally, the old man spoke up. "Belegil's wife, Rumaylah, her sister lived there. She'd know better than anyone."

"Leave my wife out of this," Belegil whispered loudly, but Jörmanil had heard him, and had crossed the room in a blink.

"Your wife is the expert? Then we shall talk to her," the lieutenant snarled, seizing the weedy man forcibly by the shoulder, "and if there is a breath of lies among you, then I shall come back here and forbid anyone from leaving until I hear the truth, do you all understand?"

Faramir opened the door and the three of them spilled out into the icy night. Already, they could hear the crowd scattering, departing out the back exit and leaving for their respective homes. The frigid air was a welcome relief from the hot, sticky interior of the tavern, and after a moment of respite, Faramir turned to Jörmanil.

"Little wonder no one wishes to talk to you!" Faramir said, looking incredulously at his lieutenant. "Do you believe people will give you truth when you speak to them so? You cannot force blood from a stone, Jörmanil!"

"These people are not stone, and I shall strike while they are unprepared. I could not sit idly by and hear slander against the crown I defend." Jörmanil said narrowly. "When dealing with gossips and cowards it is best to have a firmer approach. Now, _you_," he directed at Belegil, giving him a rough shake, "I strongly suggest you offer us an invitation to spend the night."

Faramir followed his lieutenant, his mouth tightening. Questionable methods indeed, but if Jörmanil's methods bore fruit he had little grounds for an argument.

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For someone so plain of looks, Belegil had married the most unquestionably beautiful woman Faramir had ever seen. And she was not beautiful in a traditional Gondorian sense, for there was something wild and exotic about her, with her dark skin and thick coarse hair; their house smelled spicy and strange, and the walls were covered with shelves full of tiny figurines. When the three men entered, Rumaylah was kneeling by the fire, her slender fingers picking out tiny beads to pattern on a pair of tiny leather boots.

She rose, but even before she did so, her pregnancy was very apparent. Questions in her large dark eyes, she turned to her husband, who wriggled away from Jörmanil's tight grip.

"Rumaylah, these are my guests," he explained, rubbing his sore shoulder and giving the aggressive lieutenant a bitter look. "They have some questions—"

"I am Faramir, son of Denethor," he said, stepping forward and bowing slightly to the lady of the house. "This is my lieutenant, Jörmanil. I am sorry to intrude so, but it is a very cold night and we are far from our intended destination. We have questions, and we hope you could provide some answers."

Rumaylah took a step back and cupped a hand beneath her large round belly. There was something like fear or anger in her eyes as she glanced at her husband, who rested a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. "You are the son of the Steward?" she asked, her voice bearing a strange, harsh accent.

Jörmanil's eyes widened. He knew that accent, and it was even more obvious with her appearance and garb. She was a Haradrim, a nationality that was one of the oldest enemies of Gondor. They were primitive and warlike, and the lieutenant felt distinctly uncomfortable accepting the hospitality of one.

"Aye, I am," Faramir said, "We are attempting to find out the cause of the village massacre a few moons ago."

She looked steadily at Faramir and swallowed. "They told you my sister lived there, yes?" At Faramir's nod, she looked away. "They were correct. Come, let us talk over a meal—such talk brings bad omens without good cheer to soothe the spirits."

The two Rangers were invited to sit at the hearth and warm up while the young couple prepared food. Once they were left alone, Jormandil leaned forward to whisper in his Captain's ear, but Faramir forestalled him.

"I know," he said firmly, "Aye, she is a Southron. But if she holds the answers to the questions we seek, we shall be nothing save hospitable. That means no threats or physical confrontation, Jörmanil. That's an order." Faramir was quiet and his tone was almost friendly, but there was an undercurrent of urgency.

Rumaylah came back with a platter of bread and meat, and Belegil sat down next to the two men with a bottle of wine. Faramir accepted the cup and drank from it gratefully, glad to slake his thirst. While the men ate, the young woman said nothing and instead resumed stitching beads onto the tiny booties, finishing off a spiraling design.

"I am sorry for the loss of your sister," Jormandil said slowly, chewing cautiously on a chunk of meat, "'Tis a true tragedy."

"Do not ply me with false speeches, soldier," the woman said flatly, "I know what you see, and can guess what you think—my sister was from Harad, as am I. We grew up in that village together. Many of the sour rumors about our home come from us, as our people are an uncommon sight in this territory."

Faramir bit into the soft bread and then set it aside. "We heard some…unsettling rumors down at the tavern. Stories of strange children and closed trade…are there any truth to them?"

"Strange children?" Rumaylah laughed deeply. "They had several children there gifted with _panûk amu_, or The Sight. They would never tell you, but the wives here used to travel to that village to consult with the children to see if their crops would thrive or their children would grow. They may mock and spread rumors, but when something unknown arrives, they come running to those with The Sight. Even if those bearing the gift are mere children."

Jörmanil did not roll his eyes, but looked away in a manner that indicated skepticism. "Do you know, for a fact, what happened to the village, my lady?"

She looked at the lieutenant with her beautiful black eyes and then smiled very tightly. "You distrust my beliefs—I understand that. No, I do not know what happened to my village. My only thought is those that fear what they do not understand attacked it, perhaps setting it ablaze. I do not believe it to be a magical attack, but something motivated by hatred and fear." She sewed another bead onto the bootie and then looked at Faramir. "Did anything survive the flames?"

Faramir blinked. "One small girl," he said after a moment. "Firiel is her name—she is currently residing in Minas Tirith."

Rumaylah hummed under her breath and looked down. "She will be a sad child indeed."

"Why did your village refuse to trade with its neighbors?" Jörmanil interrupted, sipping his wine. "It seems short-sighted to attempt a solitary life, as it is much too small."

"That I do not know," Rumaylah said, pushing her thick hair away from her eyes. "It seemed strange to me as well." Her gaze rested on Faramir once more. "Check your Firiel for The Sight."

"Pardon, my lady?" Faramir asked, his brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"The Sight often manifests itself as a defect. A birthmark, blindness, perhaps she cannot speak or is soft in the head. Is she any of these things?" Rumaylah said, raising an eyebrow.

The Steward's son took a long drink of his wine and then hesitated. "She is crippled in one leg, yes. I hardly think—"

"She was born with that, I assure you. Ask the girl what happened to the village."

He frowned. "She is a very delicate girl, we have questioned her before and it has sent her into a rage. I do not think it wise for her health to keep bringing up memories she would do well to forget."

"Those with the Sight forget nothing," Rumaylah said, leaning back. "Your girl, the one you rescued, she knows. You may not believe me, soldier, you may think I am a crazy foreigner. But your girl knows. Those with _panûk amu _do not forget."

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**More conversations, yippie!**

**Notes: There is no actual dictionary of the Harad language. According to my research Tolkien never wrote one, so I pulled this out of my sleeve. Also, the Southron have a fascinating history that was great to read about, so if you get a chance, go check them out. **

**As always, any mistakes are my own and ought to be pointed out so I can (hopefully) learn and grow as a writer. Thanks to annafan for telling me that Ceadda is an Anglo-Saxon name and would be better suited to Rohan rather than Gondor; see, it's little details like that which trip me up. ^^**

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_[Five reviews received]_

_Special thanks to: _**the witch cat warg, ladymoonscar, annafan, tommyginger, **_and_** Silvia Diveky.**

_I'm sorry if the chapters are a bit too short, I'll try to fix that in upcoming chapters. This is quite a stretch for me, as I'm dealing with _ALL_ native Middle Earth characters for the first time, and it's basically writing original fiction. (For me, anyway). I will try to lengthen the chapters however, and I hope you're not too bored! We'll get to some action in upcoming chapters, I promise. :) Thank you all for reviewing and sticking with this story!_


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